


Snowdrops and Glass

by rachel2205



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2014-11-18
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:25:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2639762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachel2205/pseuds/rachel2205
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark returns to Winterfell as its Lady, and finds both a new friend and a new sense of purpose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowdrops and Glass

**Author's Note:**

> For cleromancy_fic, for got_exchange winter 2014 round! Over on lj, I marked the shift between Sam and Sansa perspectives with a different font; since that's not possible here, I've put the Sam sections in bold. I hope that's not too annoying to read! 
> 
> I’ve deliberately left the outcome of the war quite vague, so you can sketch in whatever head canon you like! The story blurs book and show canon, but I’ve given Sam’s dialogue a bit of the flavour of John Bradley-West’s Cheshire accent. :)

  
When spring came in Winterfell, it was colder than the depths of winter in the Vale of Arryn. Sansa supposed the Eyrie must have been colder still, but as the snow fell – and fell, and fell – they had withdrawn to the Gates of the Moon, sheltered at the foot of the mountain. Arriving at Winterfell after weeks of travel, Sansa found snowdrifts several feet deep in the courtyards of the castle – and inside the Guest House, where the snow had blown through the broken windows. But beneath the windows of the Guest House the hot spring still fed three small pools, and on their banks snowdrops bloomed, milky-pale and fragile. In the heart of the Vale Sansa had seen valleys butter-yellow with daffodils, and on their journey north the roadsides had first been bright with pink and lilac crocuses. It would be weeks before the snow melted enough to allow other flowers to grow in Winterfell, and unless she found a way to fix the glass gardens that had been ransacked in the war, there were flowers she would never see again.

“I want to learn about the flowers that grow in the North,” she said to Sam, one evening in the Library Tower. There were snowdrops here, too, at the foot of the tower; they grew by the steaming lake that had sprung up after the keep walls were breached and the hot water pipes broken by Ramsay Bolton’s army five years ago. Roose Bolton had mended the roof of the Great Hall and raised the gates again, but what did the library matter to him? Sam, though, didn’t mind a treacherous walk across slippery stones to reach the tower. He loved the library better than Sansa ever had, and had made it into his home as well as his place of work. By rights he should have been in the Maester’s Turret, but that had been burned to the ground. Sansa wondered sometimes if Maester Luwin had been inside it when it went up in flames. She remembered him holding baby Rickon in his arms not long after he was born, and how he had patched up Arya’s endless bruises and scrapes. She would think of that, and then she would think of fire, and her throat would feel raw and tight. It had felt like that tonight, which was why she’d picked her way carefully across the stepping stones to visit Sam in his tower. Sam made things feel better, somehow.

She hadn’t much cared for him when they’d met a few weeks ago. As she’d made her slow way north to Winterfell, on roads more crevassed than cracked by years of ice, she’d sent a letter to the Citadel to ask for a maester. Sansa knew she’d need one if she was going to restore Winterfell. She hoped for a maester with the silver links of a healer, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and these days the ruler of Winterfell was a beggar in all but name. Still, when Samwell Tarly showed up a few weeks later, puffing his way across the yard, she’d felt a pang of dismay. He wasn’t much older than her, and his collar was unfinished. He was just an acolyte, and the little piece of Sansa that had secretly hoped for another Maester Luwin turned its face to the wall and died. _Stupid,_ she told herself, _I’m so stupid._ Words she’d learned to say to appease Joffrey and now were always waiting at the back of her mind. When was she going to learn to crush all her little-girl dreams? Petyr would have given her that small smile that told her, regretfully, she was being naïve, and Sansa flushed with humiliated irritation at the memory. It meant that she drew herself up to her full height – she was taller than many men now, though her willowy grace meant she would never be teased for it as Brienne of Tarth was – and greeted Sam with all the cool authority she could muster.

**Sam had cowered. His short, sweet time with Gilly was long in the past, and in the Citadel he’d not had the chance to speak to many women. And here was Lady Stark, looking at him as if he had to be a mistake. Sam was used to that expression, but not from a woman who looked like a princess in the storybooks he’d read as a child. A woman who was the trueborn sister of Jon Snow, to boot, and though Sam hadn’t seen Jon in years he still thought of him as the best friend he’d ever had. In the years he’d been at the Citadel, Sam had grown in confidence, each new link on the chain that would one day be his maester’s collar making him realise that at last he’d found where he was meant to be. But back in the cold north, under Sansa’s disappointed stare, he was once again the pale sweating boy who’d been forced to join the Night’s Watch.**

**“The Citadel really didn’t have a maester to send?” Sansa said.**

**“I’m sorry, m’lady – the war, you know,” stammered Sam, unhelpfully, and cringed as he saw Sansa make an effort not to sigh.**

**“We’ve had a room made up for your use – what should I call you, if you’re not a maester?”**

**“Just Sam, I suppose, m’lady,” he’d said, and Sansa had half-smiled, just for a moment. It stopped her being perfectly beautiful; her smile was a little crooked, and it made her look much younger. And somehow it made Sam flush hard, throat to forehead.**

**“Well, just-Sam, I hope you’ll be comfortable. Some of the books were damaged in a fire years ago, and others lost when the castle was occupied, but I think most of the Library Tower is still intact.”**

**“Library Tower?” said Sam, incredulous, and a bright smile broke out across his wide face, embarrassment forgotten. “You have a Library Tower?”**

**“It’s not just the south that has books!” Sansa said sharply, and Sam hung his head, chastened.**

**“No, m’lady. I know that. There were a lot at Castle Black, you know, where I started my training with Maester Aemon… But I just – I just assumed it was all destroyed.”**

“Winterfell’s stronger than that,” said Sansa, lifting her chin with pride. “Lots of people tried to break it, but it’s still here. You’d do well to remember that.” She swept grandly away across the courtyard, but when she got to the Great Hall she thought maybe putting an anxious young man in his place wasn’t really the gracious behaviour of a host, and she flushed with embarrassment. And so later that afternoon she had picked her way across the stepping stones to the tower. She couldn’t explain to Sam that she’d been unfriendly because she was angry with herself. Instead she said:

“I brought you some hot wine,” and set the covered jar down on the table, which was already blanketed in unrolled scrolls. Sam blinked at her in surprised pleasure, and Sansa felt a silly sort of pride in making him smile. It made her think of her mother, how she took great care to make her guests feel at home, and for once the memory wasn’t painful.

“That’s very kind, Lady Stark,” he said, “but you didn’t have to bring it yourself.”

“We don’t have a great many servants to spare, you might have noticed,” said Sansa drily. “Everyone here has important things to do to keep the castle running. It was easier to bring it myself.”

“Yes, m’lady. I know you must be worried that I’m quite useless to you,” said Sam, flushing slightly, and Sansa said at once –

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant at all,” but she wondered if that was true. Sam looked at her steadily, even though his face was flushed, and Sansa felt her stomach twist a little with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“You didn’t, Lady Stark. If you didn’t see a great lump like me, with space for two links still in his collar, and wonder what earthly good I’d be, I’d wonder at your judgment. I protested, when the archmaesters sent me here. I thought you’d need someone more accomplished. But there aren’t nearly as many maesters at the Citadel as there once were,” Sam said. “Many went to serve in different ways, during the war, and not all of them came back. And there was the siege in Oldtown, you know.”

“I didn’t know,” said Sansa, feeling stupid again. “Enemies of Highgarden?” She hadn’t heard of that battle, and all told the Tyrells had come out of the war very well. Sam shook his head.

“No, m’lady. It was about the winter, not the war. Because Oldtown was so well provisioned. Mobs came to demand food. Highgarden gave charity at first, but there were too many refugees, and they had to close the gates. And then…” Sam shrugged, but his face had gone quite pale. “Well, the city withstood it, because there was plenty of food, but disease got in, and it spread very fast.” His hand went to the latest link in his collar, and Sansa noticed it was silver. “I felt pretty useless then, too.”

“I’m sure you weren’t,” said Sansa. “I’m sure you did everything you could.”

“That’s not always enough,” said Sam ruefully. “But I do promise to do my best, Lady Stark. I know – knew – your brother, and he was a good friend to me. I hope I was to him, too. I know he’d want me to serve you well.”

“Jon,” said Sansa, and she sounded quite wistful. “I’d like to see him again.” She’d never been close to Jon, growing up. He’d always been Arya’s friend, not hers. But he was her only brother now.

“I’d like to see him too, m’lady,” said Sam, and she thought she heard some of the same wistfulness in his voice, too. It made her reach out impulsively and touch the back of his hand.

“I’m sure one day we will.”

**Sam noticed the _we_ , and it made him feel warmer than the wine – though not as warm as Sansa’s gift a day or two later, when she came in to ask him if he had any remedies for arthritis that could help one of the grooms.**

**“There’s a balm I can make, if I can find the ingredients,” said Sam, already reaching for the right book, and noticed a little jar filled with snowdrops on the table. “What’s that, m’lady?”**

**“Surely you’ve seen snowdrops before, Sam!” said Sansa.**

**“I have, yes, but – why’re they _here?_ ”**

**“I thought you might like having something bright in here; it’s so gloomy with all these crowded books,” said Sansa carelessly, and Sam thought he was probably imagining the slight flush on her face.**

**“That’s very kind of you, m’lady. I’ve always been fond of flowers. My father thought it was a girlish sort of interest, but they make me smile.”**

**“They make me smile, too,” said Sansa, and for a minute she looked like a very young girl, not a graceful lady.**

**Sam swallowed, and fiddled with his unfinished collar. “This link,” he said, “is for the study of botany. It turns out flowers are pretty useful.” Not that his father would have cared about that.**

**“I remember Maester Luwin gave someone milk of the poppy when he broke his leg,” Sansa said, looking interested.**

**“That’s a good one,” said Sam, enthused, “but flowers can do all sorts of other things too. Snapdragons to bring sleep, and daisies – why, I could use those for arthritis, if I could find them, but I suppose it’s still too cold.”**

**“If the glass gardens were still intact,” said Sansa wistfully, “we might grow them… We had ever so many flowers in there when I was growing up.”**

**Sam decided instantly, foolishly, that he would find a way to repair Winterfell’s glasshouses. He knew nothing about glass production, but knew enough that it was highly skilled work, and very expensive. Winterfell had little money for anything beyond repairing the major buildings and keeping the household running. But in the days that followed he kept coming back to the idea of how happy Sansa would be if the gardens were repaired and Winterfell could bloom with colours other than white.**

**Sam understood his own feelings, of course. He might be craven, but he wasn’t stupid. Of course he wanted to impress Lady Stark. The part of him that was a maester-in-training wanted her to see him as valuable; and the part of him that was just-Sam thought of how she’d touched his hand and said _we_. It was alright, he thought, to let himself think that way, because nothing would ever come of it. He wasn’t at risk of breaking his vows with Sansa; there was as much chance of him breaking them with the Maiden. He could help her, and Winterfell, and no one would know about anything else his imagination conjured up.**

**And so over the next weeks he spent his spare time reading – which was nothing new, though now his head was rattling with information on potash and lime and how furnaces were built – and writing letters to brother maesters across Westeros. In less time than he might have expected, he got a useful reply. Which meant that the day Sansa came to the tower asking him about northern flowers, he was able to say –**

**“I’ve been reading up on them, m’lady. But southern flowers might not be as far away as you think,” and he told her about the man he’d found, a master glassworker, who was interested in coming to Winterfell to restore the glass gardens.**

**“Do you really think he’d come, Sam?” said Sansa, excited, and then frowned. “But we don’t have much money to pay him, and the glass foundry is long gone.”**

**“I’ve told him there’s not much coin in it, and he’s still keen,” said Sam earnestly. “He wants a challenge, and he lost his patron in the war. He said he’d like to bring summer to Winterfell,” and Sam could tell that that was enough to have won Sansa over, but he went on doggedly. “And I’ve been researching how to build a foundry, and what materials are needed for glass production. I think we have enough resources to do it, and it could provide useful employment. Look,” he said, drawing out a parchment on which he’d written down estimates of the materials and estimated costs.**

**“I think we can afford it,” said Sansa, wonderingly, and then she clasped Sam’s hand. “This is wonderful! Thank you so much!”**

**“Nothing’s been done yet, m’lady,” said Sam, willing his blush to die down. “Don’t thank me until you can stand in your glass gardens again.”**

It took a long time, so long that summer was well-established by the time Master Abelard set down his tools and said the gardens were finished. Sansa had been keeping a close eye on the construction work, of course, but in the last fortnight Sam had discouraged her from visiting, saying this close to completion she would only make Abelard and his workers anxious. Sansa agreed, partly because there were plenty of other things to do. The restoration of the glass gardens seemed to have brought a new energy to Winterfell, and there were all kinds of projects underway. The longer, warmer days made it easier for people to work, and the castle complex was a hive of activity. It wasn’t like it was when she was a child, and Sansa had accepted it never would be again. But it was a happier place than it had been in years, and she realised one day that managing it had become a pleasure, not just a duty, and that she was glad for herself to be Lady Stark rather than doing it because she owed it to the memory of her family. So although she was curious to see the completed glass gardens, Sansa had plenty to occupy her mind and her hands until the midsummer day when Sam came to find her and said the houses were done.

Sansa always walked like a lady, no one could deny that; but there was also an undeniably hurried aspect to her walk across Winterfell that afternoon, Sam puffing at her heels. Master Abelard met them at the entrance to the gardens, and his solemn face lit up with a smile as he saw her expression when they stepped inside.

Most of the structures were built with small panes of glass that had a slight green hue – Abelard said it was called forest glass, the colour from the wood ash used to make it, and had lamented the difficulty of making colourless glass with the materials available in Winterfell. Sansa hadn’t minded; the parts of the gardens that hadn’t been destroyed were green, after all, and she liked looking at the glass and knowing it was coloured with the oaks and pines of the North. But the glass gardens weren’t completely green, it turned out; the ceilings were studded with panes of glass in reds and purples, blues and yellows. The sun streamed through the glass, and Sansa felt as if she were standing inside a rainbow.

**“It’s magical,” said Sansa, her face bright. Sam remembered once telling Jon that he’d wanted to be a wizard when he grew up. Jon thought he was joking, but like most of Sam’s jokes at his own expense, it had been true. As a plump and lonely little boy, he’d made himself a cloak from his mother’s silks and a wand from a stick and silver thread, and declared he was going to go to the Citadel and learn the maesters’ magic. His father had sneered, and said the maesters hated magic; and more to the point that no son of his was going to waste himself on book-learning. Now Sansa was clasping her hands together with joy, and Sam thought maybe he’d managed to learn some magic, after all.**

**“It’s all Master Abelard’s work,” he said, and Sansa smiled and turned to the craftsman, giving him lavish praise and saying she would hold a feast in honour of his hard work, and to celebrate the opening of the garden. Sam didn’t mind that Sansa didn’t praise him; he was no designer, after all, and the look on her face was reward enough for any efforts he’d made.**

**Later, as the sun set, he and Sansa returned to the gardens alone. She wanted, she said, to see how the glass looked when the light was rosy-hued. The colours were less clearly-defined at sunset, but Sam thought they were somehow more lovely, the planting beds and paths strewn with dappled light that softly shifted from crimson to damson, from cornflower to indigo, as the light faded.**

**“This is all thanks to you, Sam,” said Sansa. As she walked, the ceiling sent a starburst of gold-green light across her hair.**

**“There’s nothing to thank me for, m’lady,” he said. “I haven’t done any of the work.”**

**“But it wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for you. I wouldn’t have known where to even begin,” she said, smiling at him.**

**“I think you’d have found a way, m’lady,” he said, because in the months he had known her, he’d found that Sansa was far more resourceful and determined than most people expected of a lady so young and beautiful.**

**“You need to learn to accept a compliment, Sam,” she said, smiling, and Sam shifted from one foot to another, awkward and happy.**

**“I haven’t much experience with them, m’lady,” he said.**

**“Then I hope you’ll accept this instead,” she said, and leaned in and kissed his cheek. Sam was so startled that he just stared at her, mouth open, and Sansa laughed. Though she seemed much happier these days, her laugh was still a rare thing, and Sam thought it was the prettiest sound he’d ever heard.**

**“When you get a compliment, Sam, courtesy really suggests you should return the favour,” she said.**

**“I –” Sam began, voice strangled, and stopped. There were so many words he could say to her; that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, perhaps, but more importantly she was also the kindest. That all the work he did at Winterfell was more than rewarded by their friendship. But none of that would come out of his mouth, and instead he just looked at her and blushed.**

**“Well, then,” said Sansa, and he noticed her face was pink, too, “I suppose you can return the other thing,” and she turned her cheek toward him. Sam stared at her for another moment, disbelieving, and then hesitantly, gently pressed his lips to her cheek. Sansa drew back, and for a moment he was terrified she’d look disgusted. But instead she gave him a shy sort of smile he’d never seen before, and carried on walking through the gardens.**

**Sam wasn’t quite sure what had just happened, or if it would ever happen again. But in this moment, watching Sansa Stark walk through the gardens with sunlight in her hair, that didn’t matter. Life was, right now, quite perfect.**


End file.
